Sunbather

I am aware, in some sense, in some world, that I once had a bottle of water to my left, placed on a desk. It was some sort of sparkling water, one my favorite indulgences. Which, yes, is suggestive of how ascetic my lifestyle tends towards. I'm listening to this, the best reviewed album of the year, by most any measure (from Rolling Stone to Pitchfork to Metacritic to the guys on the metal internet forum I post at), from mainstream critics to those who focus wholly on loud things.

Its interesting. Black metal influence, shoegazey. Soaring and emphatic. Bursting with energy. The cover (both the color and lack of bleak nature scenes) and general brightness of sound (relative to black metal in general, which is, well, black) make me want to call it grapefruit metal. Although, I don't like grapefruit (it's one of the few fruits I truly dislike), and I do like this. I think the surging sensation of it would make for good running music too, but I've not tried that.

Ice is Slick and Hills are Steep

The official Kansas Road Running Records are, first of all, a thing. Not a thing dealing entirely with people from Kansas, and the fastest times run by them, but rather, a thing dealing with the times run on Kansas soil. By anyone. Or, you know, pavement. Whatever.

Regarding my spring marathon, I thought, perhaps, that a nice goal time would be whatever qualified for their "Honor Roll". I thought that, until I checked, and saw that the "open" (aged 20-34) standard for said honor roll is 2:32.

Well, nevermind.

(Not nevermind forever, necessarily. Although, if we're being honest, yeah, forever sounds about right. The standard does drop to 2:45 for the 35-39 bracket, which seems much more likely to me. But, whatever. Projecting a decade's progress/regression/being eaten by coyotes/hit by a bus/etc. is fruitless.)

Better to talk about racing in the present, which, hey, I did that today. 10.35 miles, I'm told, though the distance was never going to be the challenge. That, rather, was the ice covering the hills. I fell, I think, eight or so times, though I stopped counting. Hit a tree stump with my right shoulder, and couldn't really swing that arm for a few minutes. Cut up both knees a bit, watched the blood trickle, then freeze. Humorous, really, after the fact. Though I seem to recall, based on my shouted profanity during the race, that I didn't find any of it so funny at the time.

But, so it goes. I said yesterday that racing was the ultimate exercise in presence. And this was that, for better and worse. Exhilarating, at times. At others, I was quite sure I was going to be impaled on a tree. I did survive, however, despite my struggles with verticality. Even managed to finished second, behind a guy who, if memory serves, I'm now 0/1847291 against. You know, roughly. But hey, he's run a 2:32 marathon. (Not in Kansas though. So he's not on the honor roll either. We can sit in the back of class together, in that.)

Sepia

A slog around the golf course behind my gym. Six miles or so, slow. Legs fatigued from yesterday's 5 easy-6 tempothresholdhardish (with some fast folks)-5 easy. Air wet, a sort of omni-damp, directionless. Rain is top down; this simply was. Up. Down. Foward. Back. Just on you. In you. The sky brown, or tan, really. Sepia, maybe. Shot through a soft filter. Like a dust storm but, you know, the opposite. Wet. It looked like nostalgia but felt very present.

Racing in the morning and there will be mud, maybe. Ice certainly, perhaps enough that it cancels out the former. The hills will be there in either case, not caring if they're slick or jagged, giving zero shits about you, trying to scale them. But I'm going to try. Hopefully faster than anyone else who shows. If not, among them. Close, at least. Stroke volume maxed, tendons and muscles straining, sucking down the biting cold. It will look like hell and feel like heaven, because there is no present like racing present.

We'll see. I'll let you know.

Heartland in URM

The December issue of Ultrarunning Magazine features three Kansas races, Heartland being one. (Heartland gets the damn cover too, if you can believe it.) I'm going to indulge myself, in pointing out that the name on top of the 50-mile finishers list is mine.

1. Alex Beecher, 25 7:59:59

From the article: "Among those stories was the all-out sprint to the finish by first-place 50-mile runner Alex Beecher, 25, who achieved his goal of a sub-eight-hour finish in 7:59:59."

There are all sorts of reasons I shouldn't care this much. It's just running, yeah? And not the biggest field, obviously. Over half dropped too. And really, still an hour off the course record. Would've lost a plenty of other years.

I know all that, really. Rob Krar I'm not. But for someone who won't ever be that level of athlete, to get your name in a real magazine, on shelves and in mailboxes, with the number "1" by your name.... I mean, not to be needlessly profane, but fuck, man. Sometimes that word just works.

It's just running, yeah. But it's also what I spent the last three years working towards. A trophy in my bedroom and my name on a glossy page aren't the most important things in the world, no, but they're tangible reminders of those miles and my progress from 10:54, to 9:01, to 7:59:59. I'm not telling you this matters, really, or that anyone but me should care. But I am telling you that I do.

December 7, 2013

Ran twice today, but only for a total of 11 miles. Pretty low volume, but more miles that degrees, roughly, and some decent hill climbing, with the kind of intensity only desperately wanting to return home and get out of this brutal cold can produce. I'm ok with this.

I also managed to get in 5 hours at work today, and I'll knock another 5 out tomorrow. Overtime is mandatory and substantial, this time of year, so it pays to get out in front of it, if I want to race next week. And I do want to race next week, to state the obvious. 10 mile trail loop, with what I'm told is good competition, and good bean chile after.

This, though. This right here. Coldest sporting event I've ever attended, and probably the most dramatic too. Can't really talk but that's cool.

A full weekend, and more to come. Listened to a couple good albums, and met a few former customers to chat about life, things, etc. Funny and actually quite charming that I did something well enough for people to remember even a year later, and for them to tell me it mattered to them. It does to me too, of course. And maybe I'll write more about that soon. I probably should, if I can find the words.

Picky Bars Smooth Caffeinator: Unsolicited Endorsement

This is both what I'm talking about, in a literal sense, and what I'm talking about, in that it's the first energy/protein/recovery/whatever bar I've had to get coffee flavor right, to not hide it behind, well, other stuff. Which isn't to say that this tastes like eating roasted beans - though I do that often, and it's delicious. Mostly, you taste chocolate and hazelnut, balanced with a vague sort of dried fruit texture and flavor. There are whole nuts and a little crisped rice too, so the whole thing isn't mush.

The ingredient list is as follows:
Organic Dates, Hazelnut Butter, Organic Agave Nectar, Rice Protein (Protein from Whole Grain Sprouted Brown Rice), Organic Crispy Brown Rice Cereal, Hazelnuts, Organic Chocolate Chips (Evaporated Cane Juice, Organic Chocolate Liquor, Organic Cocoa Butter, Organic Soy Lecithin (non-GMO), Organic Vanilla Extract), Cranberries (Cranberries, Sugar, Sunflower Oil), Organic Apricots (Organic Apricots, Organic Rice Flour), Fair Trade Organic Coffee, Sea Salt, Organic Cinnamon, Organic Safflower Oil, Natural Vitamin E (to preserve freshness).

The bar itself looks like this. About the size of a quarter-deck of playing cards. Compact, and fairly dense. If you're inclined towards mechanical satiety - that is, eating for "stomach fullness" - this probably won't do the trick as anything but a tiny snack. But if you, like me, have the stomach of a 90-year-old, then the caloric/nutrient density is a bonus. I ate one with a largeish apple for lunch, six hours ago, and certainly wouldn't prefer to eat right now. Probably, the best application is as long-run fuel, for those who prefer something heartier than gels; or immediate post-workout snacking, for those - like me - who hate eating post-run.

Short version? I'd order again, for sure, and I'm slightly irritated that I can't buy these at any nearby groceries. Oh well. If you'd like to order this, or any other flavors, you can do so here. Also of note, if it's not perfectly obvious, this is a wholly unsolicited endorsement. As in, I got these with my own money. As in, I'm neither famous nor fast enough to get free shit. However, I do eat food, though most is pretty basic. It's hard to write "reviews" of sweet potatoes, apples, and beets, though, so I thought it worth mentioning that I found a coffee flavored bar that actually tastes awesome.

Opportunity Cost

Reading a lot about running lately, as I do, because I am somewhat obsessive, or rather, decidedly so, and unable to moderate my interest in things, to limit it to the mere indulgence in the act itself. And so I find myself ordering long out-of-print books by Osler and Henderson, digging up Let's Run threads about and by the late John "Hadd" Walsh, and generally spending far too much time on something I already spend far too much time on.

Though to be honest, it's not so much the time, as the mental energy, the neurosis, the feeling that, on every run, there is something else I should be doing, which is not to say not running, but rather running differently, faster, longer, etc., somehow other than what I am. Progress is nice and I've enjoyed a year of it, but how can you know, really know, if what you're doing is best, is optimal, isn't leaving, in Hadd's words, toothpaste in the tube?

You don't know, and crucially, can't. So you fret, and you read, and you fret even while plowing through a 40 mile weekend, and then a 15 mile Monday, because it was all rather slow, wasn't it? Well, except for the five 400s I managed on Saturday, on something of an urge, and the few miles on Sunday spent around half marathon pace, and then the hills on Monday. All of the miles, other than those, were really rather easy. Easy and slow. And so those other things happened, though perhaps they should not have, or perhaps there should have been more. Perhaps all this volume is silly or perhaps it is wholly insufficient.

I'd say that I digress, except that this, whatever this is, really, is the point. And I should also say that this, this point, if I'm going to call it that, is a happy one, or at worst, necessary, the result of some rather profound need to obsess, not over things, but a thing, that I've got. So, if not this, then something else. Perhaps better, but probably not. This, at least, is an obsession society has decided one ought to be congratulated for, even if they will suggest, kindly and gently, that we could, perhaps, eat just a little more.

But it's good, really, and best at the end of all those miles, deeply and thoroughly bonked, damp with effort and bliss. Running the sort of volume that I presently do may not, ultimately, make me fast (wherever that line is, it's hard to imagine I've crossed it), or even faster. But it feels good, always. And that's not nothing.